


Nightmare

by sixappleseeds



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Blood, Body Horror, Death, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2588336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixappleseeds/pseuds/sixappleseeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronan's having a nightmare. Cabeswater doesn't want him there. Things get nasty. Second person present tense, Ronan's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

You’re dreaming.  
  
You rise, and ferns brush your legs. The clouds above are glowing like the moon’s behind them, and your skin reflects that light. You’re startled by how pale you are, how you seem to be nothing but lines of white against the shadows. You cover yourself with a hand, because the wind’s blowing and the bracken beat at your body.  
  
Cabeswater is dangerous tonight.  
  
“Orphan Girl?”  It comes out as a croak, surely inaudible over the wind, yet there she is, another pale body yards ahead of you. She blinks her black eyes and beckons.  
  
“Hurry.”    
  
Has she spoken aloud? She’s darting through the undergrowth and you stumble to follow. The branches are sharp — thorns, you’re weaving through thorns now — and your feet scrape and slide across rocks and roots. “Wait!” you cry. “I can’t —”  
  
“ _Hurry_.”  Her voice again, in your head and nowhere else. She’s a pale blur, indistinct between tree trunks and thorn bushes, and she hasn’t stopped running. You can’t either. Around you the wind snaps branches across your chest, your arms, your legs. It hurts, it hurts. Tree roots, old stumps, a millennia of fallen leaves conspire to trip you, slow you, make you stop. Make you give up.  
  
 _Thief_ , the trees hiss. _Dirt-crawler. Selfish fool_.  
  
“ _Hurry!_ ” Orphan Girl screams over the wind. Her cry reverberates in your head like a gunshot. You keep sliding-stumbling-tripping-running. A stream bed yawns beneath you, so you leap, miss, and gasp as you crash into stinging cold water. Your throat is on fire, it hurts to breathe, but you claw your way out and take off again. It feels like you’re farther into Cabeswater than you’ve ever been, like you’ve run for miles already, like you’ve been dreaming for days. Still the wind howls and the trees shake, still you cannot stop.  
  
 _Snake_ , moan the trees. _Get out. Life-taker. Family-breaker_.  
  
Bursting into a clearing, you trip once more and land sprawled on your belly. It’s soft, finally soft, a carpet of clean moss, and you gasp for breath with your forehead pressed to the ground. Your chest is heaving, dirt grinds under your nails as you clench your fists, and the wind raises gooseflesh across your back.  Your whole body burns. You’re soaked, with sweat and water and — and —  
  
Dragging yourself to your knees, you realize you’re moaning, aspirating wordless consonants with each breath, because your arms and chest and legs are lined black now, long stripes and jagged edges, smeared and sticky and oozing. The thorns. You’re covered in blood. The moss where you lay is stained with it. You don’t know what it means, that Cabeswater has tasted your blood. The thought terrifies you.  
  
A twig snaps. You can’t see beyond the clearing, everything is in shadow. “Orphan Girl?” you whisper.  
  
 _It’s too late_ , she says inside your head. _You were too late…_  
  
Another snap, a branch breaking somewhere to your left. The clearing’s getting darker, you blink and stare but there’s dirt in your eyes and you can’t see anything, you can’t see, you can’t —  
  
But you can hear.  
  
You were not awake when your father was murdered, but your ears heard it all the same. Every punch, every muffled cry, every sickening crunch of bone and gurgle of blood. It takes forever. The sounds come from all around you, over and over and over again, and you shove your fingers in your ears but it doesn’t help. You’ve crushed your head into the ground, don’t realize you’re inhaling dirt and moss until you choke on your screams.  
  
 _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry please stop I’m so sorry please_  
  
You gasp for breath, and realize the other sounds have stopped.  
  
The silence is just as bad.  
  
Light returns gradually to the clearing, which is to say, you can slowly discern shapes again. The shape of your hands clenched near your face, the texture of the moss beneath you, the legs lying twisted just a short distance away.  
  
You wish it had stayed dark.  
  
It’s your father’s corpse.  
  
Closing your eyes doesn’t help; the image is tattooed in your memory as permanently as the ink is across your back. In a moment of lucidity you wonder if it will ever hurt any less to remember, then you open your eyes again.  
  
No. No, it never will.  
  
Sitting up, you drag yourself on hands and knees over to the body that belonged to your father, reach to touch him. But it’s not Niall Lynch anymore, lying broken and bloody on that soft moss.  It’s Matthew.  
  
“What?” Your hand’s hovering over the remains of your little brother’s chest. It’s been blown apart.  This isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. You can’t look away from that ragged hole. “No…”  
  
“It’s okay, pal,” Matthew whispers. You jerk your gaze to his face. It’s lined with blood and tears.  “I know you tried.”  
  
“I did — I didn’t mean —”  Spluttering, you shove your fist into your mouth and bite as hard as you can.

 _This isn’t real this can’t be real this isn’t real oh Jesus wake up wake up wake_  
  
“I fucking told you,” Declan snarls. He’s curled around Matthew, just as mutilated as your father and brother, and he’s using the last of his breath to curse you. “I told you to keep your head down, you selfish faggot. I told you.” He chokes, spits out blood. “But you were too fucking selfish to think about your family, weren’t you? God, I hate you.”  
  
“No, I — ” you try, but cold fingers clutch at your side, and you fall back to see, oh Jesus fuck, Gansey reaching towards you. He’s stretched along the ground, and there’s too much of him, somehow. Too much of what should be inside his body is outside, seeping through the moss. He doesn’t say a word, just stares up at you with reproachful eyes, and it’s worse than Declan and Matthew, because you know he’s right. He’s right. This is your fault. Blue, behind him, is only a face in the darkness but that face glares at you with all the knives Gansey’s disappointment lacks.  
  
“Shoulda stayed with me, princess,” Kavinsky laughs. He’s sprawled over the underbrush at the edge of the clearing. His skin is blackened, charred, so all you really see is his smile. His teeth gleam back at you. “We go out with a bang, no more harm done. It’s lonely being dead without you.”  
  
“I didn’t,” you manage. “I’m not…” Your head is throbbing, and the hundreds of cuts and scrapes across your body burn with each gasp you take. The scent of gore is pervasive. Your own hands are covered with blood. Yours?  Is it yours?  “I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”  
  
A cool hand rubs over your head. You turn, bracing yourself. It’s Adam. He’s standing above you, and he’s not bleeding, or dead, or staring at you with accusatory eyes. Finally. For a moment, the dream shifts back into familiar territory. You’ve dreamt of Adam so much, this Adam, who wears the same clothes and gives you the same half-smirk almost every night.  And he’s touching you now, so carefully, like maybe you mean something to him, too. He feathers his fingers along your cheekbones, your chin, your jaw. When he cups the back of your head a thrill shivers up your spine.  
  
 _It’s a dream it’s a dream it’s a dream don’t stop_  
  
“It’s such a shame, Lynch,” Adam murmurs, stroking your head.  “What you’ve become. Such a damn shame.”  
  
 _What_  
  
Adam’s fingers curl around to grasp your neck. “You think you know what you are,” he says, drawing out those Henrietta vowels you find so enticing. “But I can tell you. You’re nothing but a thief. Nothing but a leech who sucks the love from everyone around you, and you break us when you’re done.”    
  
You can’t reply, because Adam is clasping your neck so hard it makes you gasp. He squeezes harder. His face - oh sweet Jesus, his face is suddenly terrible, dripping tears or blood or gore, you don’t know but it burns when it hits your skin.  
  
“And you know what, Lynch?” Adam’s eyes are glaring down at you now, and it’s not accusation you see there. It’s rage. “I’m tired of it. I’m tired of you taking, and taking, like the whole damn world is yours.” His hands on you tighten further, and his intention is finally clear. He’s going to kill you.  
  
 _Wake up wake up wake up why can’t I wake up_  
  
“I’m done,” Adam growls. “I am just so fucking done with you.”  
  
You squeeze your eyes shut.  
  
“Stop,” another voice whispers. “Stop it. Leave him alone.”  
  
You almost don’t recognize that voice, because it’s so soft and tremulous and frightened-sounding it carries barely any tone. But it grows stronger. “That’s enough. You’re being a bully, okay? Just let him go.”  
  
Noah emerges before you, materializing with visible effort, and he’s not looking down at where you’re gasping on the ground, or at Adam, whose hands have fallen away, or at any of the twisted, silent bodies nearby.  
  
Instead he glowers up at the trees. He looks so small and smudgy against those shadows your heart quails - _he’s not safe here!_ \- but he steps towards you, still glaring upwards, and places a hand on your shoulder. “We’re leaving,” he says. “He’s waking up now, Cabeswater. Don’t do this again.”  
  
He squeezes your shoulder gently, looks down at last, and smiles. “Come on Ronan,” he says. “Let’s go home.”  
  
…  
  
When you lurch awake in your bed at Monmouth, Noah is still there.  He shushes you, because you can’t seem to stop moaning, and then he bundles you into a blanket and ushers you out, across the floor, into the bathroom. You’re shaking so violently it’s hard to walk properly, but together you manage. You’re sick in the toilet.  But he’s turned on the shower, blasting water so hot the tiny room fills with steam, and that alone feels better.  Then he strips down to his boxers before yanking your blanket away and shoving you into the bath. You half-scream, remembering the cuts and scrapes you earned from your race through the forest, but they stayed in the dream: your skin is whole. There is no dirt under your nails, or blood on your hands. And Noah’s there, looking like a soaked kitten but he’s there, and when he tentatively opens his arms you step into them. There’s hot water pounding against your back, and Noah’s cool skin against your chest, and maybe it was all just a terrible dream.  
  
“I’m glad you are who you are, Ronan,” Noah whispers. And again you can’t speak, but this time it’s from tears.  
  
Later, as the pre-dawn light is edging the horizon grey, you both curl up on the sofa to watch the day begin. Noah wriggles under the blankets and you wrap an arm around his waist just to keep him still. Then, after your breathing has evened and the sky’s a little lighter — “Thanks, Noah,” you murmur. “I’m really glad we’re — that I’m your friend. Thank you.”  
  
“Don’t mention it,” he replies sleepily. “Just don’t have any more nightmares for a while, okay?”  
  
“Okay.”  
  
And somehow, miraculously, you don’t.


End file.
